The scene in the study, while the notary read through the
voluminous documents, is worth describing. At one end of the large
green table sat San Giacinto alone, his form, even as he sat,
towering above the rest. The mourning he wore harmonised with his
own dark and massive head. His expression was calm and thoughtful,
betraying neither satisfaction nor triumph. From time to time his
deep-set eyes turned towards Saracinesca with a look of inquiry,
as though to assure himself that the prince agreed to the various
points and was aware that he must now speak for the last time, if
he spoke at all. At the other end of the board the two Saracinesca
were seated side by side. The strong resemblance that existed
between them was made very apparent by their position, but
although, allowing for the difference of their ages, their
features corresponded almost line for line, their expressions were
totally different. The old man's gray hair and pointed beard
seemed to bristle with suppressed excitement. His heavy brows were
bent together, as though he were making a great effort to control
his temper, and now and then there was an angry gleam in his eyes.
He sat square and erect in his seat, as though he were facing an
enemy, but he kept his hands below the table, for he did not
choose that San Giacinto should see the nervous working of his
fingers. Giovanni, on the other hand, looked upon the proceedings
with an indifference that was perfectly apparent. He occasionally
looked at his watch, suppressed a yawn, and examined his nails
with great interest. It was clear that he was not in the least
moved by what was going on. It was no light matter for the old
nobleman to listen to the documents that deprived him one by one
of his titles, his estates, and his other wealth, in favour of a
man who was still young, and whom, in spite of the relationship,
he could not help regarding as an inferior. He had always
considered himself as the representative of an older generation,
who, by right of position, was entitled to transmit to his son the
whole mass of those proud traditions in which he had grown up as
in his natural element. Giovanni, on the contrary, possessed a
goodly share of that indifference that characterises the younger
men of the nineteenth century. He was perfectly satisfied with his
present situation, and had been so long accustomed to depend upon
his personality and his private fortune, for all that he enjoyed
or required in life, that he did not desire the responsibilities
that weigh heavily upon the head of a great family. Moreover,
recent events had turned the current of his thoughts into a
different direction. He was in his way as happy as Corona, and he
knew that real happiness proceeds from something more than a score
of titles and a few millions of money, more or less. He regarded
the long morning's work as an intolerable nuisance, which
prevented him from spending his time with his wife.

In the middle of the table sat the two notaries, flanked by four
clerks, all of them pale men in black, clean shaved, of various
ages, but bearing on their faces the almost unmistakable stamp of
their profession. The one who was reading the deeds wore
spectacles. From time to time he pushed them back upon his bald
forehead and glanced first at San Giacinto and then at Prince
Saracinesca, after which he carefully resettled the glasses upon
his long nose and proceeded with his task until he had reached the
end of another set of clauses, when he repeated the former
operation with mechanical regularity, never failing to give San
Giacinto the precedence of the first look.

For a long time this went on, with a monotony which almost drove
Giovanni from the room. Indeed nothing but absolute necessity
could have kept him in his place. At last the final deed was
reached. It was an act of restitution drawn up in a simple form so
as to include, by a few words, all the preceding documents. It set
forth that Leone Saracinesca being "free in body and mind," the
son of Giovanni Saracinesca deceased, "whom may the Lord preserve
in a state of glory," restored, gave back, yielded, and abandoned
all those goods, titles, and benefices which he had inherited
directly from Leone Saracinesca, the eleventh of that name,
deceased, "whom may the Lord preserve in a state of glory," to
Giovanni Saracinesca, Marchese di San Giacinto, who was "free in
body and mind," son of Orsino Saraeinesca, ninth of that name,
deceased, "whom may the Lord, etc." Not one of the quaint stock
phrases was omitted. The notary paused, looked round, adjusted his
spectacles and continued. The deed further set forth that Giovanni
Saracinesca, Marchese di San Giacinto aforesaid, acknowledged the
receipt of the aforesaid goods, titles, and benefices, and stated
that he received all as the complete inheritance, relinquishing
all further claims against the aforesaid Leone and his heirs for
ever. Once more the reader paused, and then read the last words in
a clear voice--

"Both the noble parties promising, finally, in regard to the
present cession, to take account of it, to hold it as acceptable,
valid, and perpetual, and, for the same, never to allow it to be
spoken of otherwise."

A few words followed, setting forth the name of the notary and the
statement that the act was executed in his presence, with the
date. When he had finished reading all, he rose and turned the
document upon the table so that the two parties could stand
opposite to him and sign it. Without a word he made a slight
inclination and offered the pen to Saraeinesca. The old gentleman
pushed back his chair and marched forward with erect head and a
firm step to sign away what had been his birthright. From first to
last he had acknowledged the justice of his cousin's claims, and
he was not the man to waver at the supreme moment. His hair
bristled more stiffly than ever, and his dark eyes shot fire, but
he took the pen and wrote his great strong signature as clearly as
he had written it at the foot of his marriage contract five and
thirty years earlier. Giovanni looked at him with admiration.

Then San Giacinto, who had risen out of respect to the old man,
came forward and took the pen in his turn. He wrote out his name
in straight, firm characters as usual, but at the end the ink made
a broad black mark that ended abruptly, as though the writer had
put the last stroke to a great undertaking.

"There should be two witnesses," said the notary in the awkward
silence that followed. "Don Giovanni can be one," he added, giving
the latter the only name that was now his, with a lawyer's
scrupulous exactness.

"One of your clerks can be the other," suggested Saracinesca, who
was anxious to get away as soon as possible.

"It is not usual," replied the notary. "Is there no one in the
palace? One of the young princes would do admirably."

"They are all away," said San Giacinto. "Let me see--there is the
librarian. Will he answer the purpose? He must be in the library
at this hour. A respectable man--he has been thirty years in the
house. For that matter, the steward is probably in his office,
too."

"I will bring him at once--I know the way." San Giacinto left the
study by the door that opened upon the passage. The others could
hear his heavy steps as he went rapidly up the paved corridor. Old
Saracinesca walked up and down the room unable to conceal his
impatience. Giovanni resumed his seat and waited quietly,
indifferent to the last.

Arnoldo Meschini was in the library, as San Giacinto had
anticipated. He was seated at his usual place at the upper end of
the hall, surrounded by books and writing materials which he
handled nervously without making any serious attempt to use them.
He had lost all power of concentrating his thoughts or of making
any effort to work. Fortunately for him no one had paid any
attention to him during the past ten days. His appearance was
dishevelled and slovenly, and he was more bent than he had
formerly been. His eyes were bleared and glassy as he stared at
the table before him, assuming a wild and startled expression
when, looking up, he fancied he saw some horrible object gliding
quickly across the sunny floor, or creeping up to him over the
polished table. All his former air of humility and shabby
respectability was gone. His disordered dress, his straggling
grayish hair that hung from beneath the dirty black skullcap
around his misshapen ears, his face, yellow in parts and
irregularly flushed in others, as though it were beginning to be
scorched from within, his unwashed hands, every detail of his
appearance, in short, proclaimed his total degradation. But
hitherto no one had noticed him, for he had lived between his
attic, the deserted library and the apothecary's shop on the
island of Saint Bartholomew. His mind had almost ceased to act
when he was awake, except in response to the fear which the
smallest circumstances now caused him. If he had dreams by night,
he saw visions also in the day, and his visions generally took the
shape of San Giacinto. He had not really seen him since he had met
him when the prince lay in state, but the fear of him was, if
anything, greater than if he had met him daily. The idea that the
giant was lying in wait for him had become fixed, and yet he was
powerless to fly. His energy was all gone between his potations
and the constant terror that paralysed him.

On that morning he had been as usual to the Ponte Quattro Capi and
had returned with the means of sleep in his pocket. He had no
instinct left but to deaden his sensations with drink during the
hours of light, while waiting for the time when he could lie down
and yield to the more potent influence of the opium. He had
therefore come back as usual, and by force of habit had taken his
place in the library, the fear of seeming to neglect his supposed
duties forbidding him to spend all his time in his room. As usual,
too, he had locked the door of the passage to separate himself
from his dread of a supernatural visitation. He sat doubled
together in his chair, his long arms lying out before him upon the
books and papers.

All at once he started in his seat. One, two, one two--yes, there
were footsteps in the corridor--they were coining nearer and
nearer--heavy, like those of the dead prince--but quicker, like
those of San Giacinto--closer, closer yet. A hand turned the latch
once, twice, then shook the lock roughly. Meschini was helpless.
He could neither get upon his feet and escape by the other exit,
nor find the way to the pocket that held his weapon. Again the
latch was turned and shaken, and then the deep voice he dreaded
was heard calling to him.

He shrieked aloud with fear, but he was paralysed in every limb. A
moment later a terrible crash drowned his cries. San Giacinto, on
hearing his agonised scream, had feared some accident. He drew
back a step and then, with a spring, threw his colossal strength
against the line where the leaves of the door joined. The lock
broke in its sockets, the panels cracked under the tremendous
pressure, and the door flew wide open. In a moment San Giacinto
was standing over the librarian, trying to drag him back from the
table and out of his seat. He thought the man was in a fit. In
reality he was insane with terror.

"An easy death, for the love of heaven!" moaned the wretch,
twisting himself under the iron hands that held him by the
shoulders. "For God's sake! I will tell you all--do not torture
me--oh! oh!--only let it be easy--and quick--yes, I tell you--I
killed the prince--oh, mercy, mercy, for Christ's sake!"

San Giacinto's grip tightened, and his face grew livid. He lifted
Meschini bodily from the chair and set him against the table,
holding him up at arm's length, his deep eyes blazing with a rage
that would soon be uncontrollable. Meschini's naturally strong
constitution did not afford him the relief of fainting.

"You killed him--why?" asked San Giacinto through his teeth,
scarcely able to speak.

"Silence!" cried the giant in a voice that shook the vault of the
hall. "Answer me or I will tear your head from your body with my
hands! Why do you say you killed him for me?"

Meschini trembled all over, and then his contorted face grew
almost calm. He had reached that stage which may be called the
somnambulism of fear. The perspiration covered his skin in an
instant, and his voice sank to a distinct whisper.

"He made me forge the deeds, and would not pay me for them. Then I
killed him."

"Come with me," said San Giacinto, leaving his arms and taking him
by the collar. Then he dragged and pushed him towards the
splintered door of the passage. At the threshold, Meschini writhed
and tried to draw back, but he could no more have escaped from
those hands that held him than a lamb can loosen the talons of an
eagle when they are buried deep in the flesh.

"Go on!" urged the strong man, in fierce tones. "You came by this
passage to kill him--you know the way."

With a sudden movement of his right hand he launched the howling
wretch forward into the corridor. All through the narrow way
Meschini's cries for mercy resounded, loud and piercing, but no
one heard him. The walls were thick and the distance from the
inhabited rooms was great. But at last the shrieks reached the
study.

Saracinesca stood still in his walk. Giovanni sprang to his feet.
The notaries sat in their places and trembled. The noise came
nearer and then the door flew open. San Giacinto dragged the
shapeless mass of humanity in and flung it half way across the
room, so that it sank in a heap at the old prince's feet.

"There is the witness to the deeds," he cried savagely. "He forged
them, and he shall witness them in hell. He killed his master in
this very room, and here he shall tell the truth before he dies.
Confess, you dog! And be quick about it, or I will help you."

He stirred the grovelling creature with his foot. Meschini only
rolled from side to side and hid his face against the floor. Then
the gigantic hands seized him again and set him on his feet, and
held him with his face to the eight men who had all risen and were
standing together in wondering silence.

"Speak!" shouted San Giacinto in Meschini's ear. "You are not dead
yet--you have much to live through, I hope."

Again that trembling passed over the unfortunate man's limbs, and
he grew quiet and submissive. It was all as he had seen it in his
wild dreams and visions, the secret chamber whence no sound could
reach the outer world, the stern judges all in black, the cruel
strength of San Giacinto ready to torture him. The shadow of death
rose in his eyes.

San Giacinto led him to a chair in the midst of them all. Then he
stood before one of the doors, and motioned to his cousin to guard
the other. But Arnoldo Meschini had no hope of escape. His hour
was at hand, and he knew it.

"You forged the deeds which were presented as originals in the
court. Confess it to those gentlemen." It was San Giacinto who
spoke.

"The prince made me do it," answered Meschini in low tones. "He
promised me twenty thousand scudi for the work."

"The prince threw it on the ground after he had struck her. I saw
the quarrel. I was waiting for my money. I watched them through
the door."

"You know that you are to die. Where are the deeds you stole when
you forged the others?"

"I told you--in the cupboard in my room. Here is the key. Only--
for God's sake---"

He was beginning to break down again. Perhaps, by the habit of the
past days he felt the need for drink even in that supreme moment,
for his hand sought his pocket as he sat. Instead of the bottle he
felt the cold steel barrel of the revolver, which he had
forgotten. San Giacinto looked towards the notary.

"Is this a full confession, sufficient to commit this man to
trial?" he asked. But before the notary could answer, Meschini's
voice sounded through the room, not weak and broken, but loud and
clear.

"It is! It is!" he cried in sudden and wild excitement. "I have
told all. The deeds will speak for themselves. Ah! you would have
done better to leave me amongst my books!" He turned to San
Giacinto. "You will never be Prince Saracinesca. But I shall
escape you. You shall not give me a slow death--you shall not, I
say--"

San Giacinto made a step towards him. The proximity of the man who
had inspired him with such abject terror put an end to his
hesitation.

"You shall not!" he almost screamed. "But my blood is on your
head--Ah!"

Three deafening reports shook the air in rapid succession, and all
that was left of Arnoldo Meschini lay in a shapeless heap upon the
floor. While a man might have counted a score there was silence in
the room. Then San Giacinto came forward and bent over the body,
while the notaries and their clerks cowered in a corner.
Saracinesca and Giovanni stood together, grave and silent, as
brave men are when they have seen a horrible sight and can do
nothing. Meschini was quite dead. When San Giacinto had assured
himself of the fact, he looked up. All the fierce rage had
vanished from his face.

"He is dead," he said quietly. "You all saw it. You will have to
give your evidence in half an hour when the police come. Be good
enough to open the door."

He took up the body in his arms carefully, but with an ease that
amazed those who watched him. Giovanni held the door open, and San
Giacinto deposited his burden gently upon the pavement of the
corridor. Then he turned back and re-entered the room. The door of
the study closed for ever on Arnoldo Meschini.

In the dead silence that followed, San Giacinto approached the
table upon which the deed lay, still waiting to be witnessed. He
took it in his hand and turned to Saracinesca. There was no need
for him to exculpate himself from any charge of complicity in the
abominable fraud which Montevarchi had prepared before he died.
Not one of the men present even thought of suspecting him. Even if
they had, it was clear that he would not have brought Meschini to
confess before them a robbery in which he had taken part. But
there was that in his brave eyes that told his innocence better
than any evidence or argument could have proclaimed it. He held
out the document to Saracinesca.

"Would you like to keep it as a memento?" he asked. "Or shall I
destroy it before you?"

His voice never quavered, his face was not discomposed. Giovanni,
the noble-hearted gentleman, wondered whether he himself could
have borne such a blow so bravely as this innkeeper cousin of his.
Hopes, such as few men can even aspire to entertain, had been
suddenly extinguished. A future of power and wealth and honour,
the highest almost that his country could give any man, had been
in a moment dashed to pieces before his eyes. Dreams, in which the
most indifferent would see the prospect of enormous satisfaction,
had vanished into nothing during the last ten minutes, almost at
the instant when they were to be realised. And yet the man who had
hoped such hopes, who had looked forward to such a future, whose
mind must have revelled many a time in the visions that were
already becoming realities--that man stood before them all,
outwardly unmoved, and proposing to his cousin that he should keep
as a remembrance the words that told of his own terrible
disappointment. He was indeed the calmest of those present.

"Shall I tear it to pieces?" he asked again, holding the document
between his fingers. Then the old prince spoke.

"Do what you will with it," he answered. "But give me your hand.
You are a braver man than I."

"It shall not be the last deed between us," said Saracinesca.
"There shall be another. Whatever may be the truth about that
villain's work you shall have your share--"

"A few hours ago, you would not take yours," answered San Giacinto
quietly. "Must I repeat your own words?"

"Well, well--we will talk of that. This has been a terrible
morning's work, and we must do other things before we go to
business again. That poor man's body is outside the door. We had
better attend to that matter first, and send for the police.
Giovanni, my boy, will you tell Corona? I believe she is still in
the house."

Giovanni needed no urging to go upon his errand. He entered the
drawing-room where Corona was still sitting beside Faustina upon
the sofa. His face must have been pale, for Corona looked at him
with a startled expression.

"Meschini confessed before us all that it was he who was the
cause--in fact that he had murdered your father. Before any one
could stop him, he had shot himself. It is very dreadful."

With a low cry that was more expressive of amazement than of
horror, Faustina sank into a chair. In his anxiety to tell his
wife the whole truth Giovanni forgot her at once. As soon as he
began to speak, however, Corona led him away to the window where
they had stood together a few hours earlier.

"Corona--what I told her is not all. There is something else.
Meschini had forged the papers which gave the property to San
Giacinto. Montevarchi had promised him twenty thousand scudi for
the job. It was because he would not pay the money that Meschini
killed him. Do you understand?"

"Everything--but we must give San Giacinto a share. He has behaved
like a hero. He found it all out and made Meschini confess. When
he knew the truth he did not move a muscle of his face, but
offered my father the deed he had just signed as a memento of the
occasion."

"Then he will not take anything, any more than you would, or your
father. Is it quite sure, Giovanni? Is there no possible mistake?"

"No. It is absolutely certain. The original documents are in this
house."

"I am glad then, for you, dear," answered Corona. "It would have
been very hard for you to bear--"

"After this morning? After the other day in Holy Office?" asked
Giovanni, looking deep into her splendid eyes. "Can anything be
hard to bear if you love me, darling?"

"Oh my beloved! I wanted to hear you say it!" Her head sank upon
his shoulder, as though she had found that perfect rest for which
she had once so longed.

Here ends the second act in the history of the Saracinesca. To
trace their story further would be to enter upon an entirely
different series of events, less unusual perhaps in themselves,
but possibly worthy of description as embracing that period during
which Rome and the Romans began to be transformed and modernised.
In the occurrences that followed, both political and social, the
Saracinesca bore a part, in that blaze of gaiety which for many
reasons developed during the winter of the Oecumenical Council, in
the fall of the temporal power, in the social confusion that
succeeded that long-expected catastrophe, and which led by rapid
degrees to the present state of things. If there are any left who
still feel an interest in Giovanni and Corona, the historian may
once more resume his task and set forth in succession the
circumstances through which they have passed since that memorable
morning they spent at the Palazzo Montevarchi. They themselves are
facts, and, as such, are a part of the century in which we live;
whether they are interesting facts or not, is for others to judge,
and if the verdict denounces them as flat, unprofitable and
altogether dull, it is not their fault; the blame must be imputed
to him who, knowing them well, has failed in an honest attempt to
show them as they are.